My Heart, In Segments
by Chalupakabra
Summary: Berwald is a man left alone, and Peter was a kid left behind. Berwald's not really the perfect dad, Peter's not really innocent anymore, and Tino's not really sure he's ready for something so real. But, maybe... Maybe it's time. -SuFin, foster care AU-
1. The First Segment

_"When God had made The Man, he made him out of stuff that sung all the time and glittered all over. Then after that some angels got jealous and chopped him into millions of pieces, but still he glittered and hummed. So they beat him down to nothing but sparks, but each little spark had a shine and a song. So they covered each one over with mud. And the lonesomeness in the sparks make them hunt for one another, but the mud is deaf and dumb."_

- Zora Neale Hurston

* * *

"Who are you?"

"Y'know who I am."

"Well, yeah, technically – I know your name, but, I mean… I don't _know_ you."

A sandy-haired boy sat across from a much larger man, one who hunched over his place at the dining table, as if he was ashamed of being quite so tall. He wore glasses and a somber expression, his face was practically unlined save light creases on his brow. In others it might have been a sign of youth; in him it simply indicated that he never smiled. The boy opposite had a legitimate youthful look, being only fifteen. But there was something cagey about him, as if, at any moment, he could take off sprinting, or lash out like a feral dog.

The man was Berwald Oxenstierna, fairly successful finish carpenter. The boy was Peter Kirkland, newly placed foster child. The latter grinned in a way that didn't even suggest amusement, and tried again.

"You some kind of creep? Like a pedophile?"

"No," Berwald said, removing the sharp-framed glasses he'd worn that day to give his eyes a rest. "Y'know that too. Child care ag'ncy did a backgr'nd check on me."

"That means _jack_," Peter countered, shifting weight in his chair until only the back two legs held purchase on the linoleum. "So you've got a steady job, own your house, like long walks on the beach… Bugger that. Maybe you just haven't been caught yet."

Berwald closed his eyes and took a deep breath in through his nose.

"'M not a child molest'r."

"So what are you in it for, huh? Is it the check? Seriously, man you live so well–"

"No, s'not th'money. Don't give a damn 'bout th'money."

Peter sat forward suddenly, and the sound his chair made against the tile might have startled anyone but the man in front of him, the man the state said he was supposed to call 'dad'. It almost startled the boy himself.

"Why are you fostering me?" Peter asked, blunt. "I'm not 'cute', I've got a bad record, the home's had me on more meds than most terminal cancer patients… I don't get it."

"Y'don't have t'get it," Berwald responded, pushing away from the table and standing with purpose. He paused between the kitchen and the dining room, not really meeting Peter's gaze, which was closed, even though his eyes were open.

"Y'hungry?" he asked. Peter nodded, knowing he wasn't getting anything out of his 'father' tonight.

"There's a good pizza joint on 45th that delivers."

But Berwald wasn't listening. He'd grabbed a skillet off the rack above his range and was rummaging in the pantry, and when he pulled a carton of Hamburger Helper out to set on the counter, Peter felt something in his throat tighten up.

That night, the boy ate something homemade. It had been awhile. Berwald had pulled down two out of a bachelor's four plate set to serve it on, and, as Peter raked ground beef and noodles into his mouth like they were going out of style, he noticed little clear patches on lightly dusted surfaces. Things had been taken out of this house.

If Berwald saw him looking at the empty spaces, he didn't comment. The man cleared his plate, took Peter's when he was done, and washed them by hand. Peter himself slipped up the carpeted steps, finding what was obviously to be his room and shutting himself inside.

There wasn't a lock on the door, and when he looked for one, Berwald, who'd come up the stairs behind him, did some observing of his own. Peter went to bed that night but slept uneasy, like he had one eye open. No one came into his room.

The next day, when he got back from school, there was a lock on his door. Both keys, which had come with the new door handle, were on his bed.

* * *

"G'mornin'."

"_Berwald… why are you calling?"_

"'M worried 'bout y'. Can't I be worried 'bout y'?"

"…"

"T'no? Y'still there?"

"_Yes, I'm still here. Berwald, you need to stop calling."_

"Know that."

"_Then why do you insist on dragging this out? It's been six months."_

"M' not draggin' it out, 'm just…"

"_I'm sorry, Sve. I have to go."_

"T'no, I–"

"_Please don't call again."_


	2. The Second Segment

_"Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain."_

- Neil Gaiman

* * *

Months passed. Peter slept through the night, and eventually stopped locking his door. The social worker assigned to his case took great pleasure in reporting that, no, he hadn't run away again, and yes, he'd stopped picking fights with his therapist. His therapist stopped trying to push Ritalin on him.

Peter was confused. Not happy, not even content. Just confused.

Berwald was quiet. He spent a lot of time in his workshop, drafting designs and building things. He spent time with Peter, took him to parks and school and bought him ice cream if the boy even _remarked_ upon a stand by the side of the road. He kept him in nice clothes Peter got to pick out himself, made sure he went to bed at a decent hour, and went to see him play in school sports.

Perfect dad, by the state's standards. By anyone's standards. But he wasn't really _there._

At first, Peter tried to fill the empty spaces in Berwald's house. He made things at school and set them in the clear spaces where _some else's_ things had been. He mopped dust with a shirtsleeve to destroy the blanks he couldn't fill, and he talked more than was necessary, to fill _that_ gap.

He didn't know why he was trying so hard. The way things were going, he'd be out of this house in a couple weeks, either because he got fed up with the _nothing_ or because Berwald offed himself. The man was trying not to look so bad, but he was a train wreck in slow motion.

One night Peter came downstairs, looking for his backpack, and found Berwald asleep in a chair by the dying fire. He approached, meaning to shake him awake, but stopped as the terse man began to call out in his sleep. Just a name.

"T'no."

His voice broke in the middle of whatever he was about to say next, and he shifted violently, tossing away a blanket that had been loosely draped over his lap.

Peter stepped back, and then out of the room. He shook like a leaf, like in the movies when somebody has a ghost walk through them. He felt like that, too. His legs finally wobbled too hard to hold him, and he more fell than sat down, back against the hall wall as if he was trying to hold it up, and not the other way around.

"I'm not a replacement," he whispered, echoing something he'd felt, back when his brother was still on box wine, and not the hard stuff. "I'm me. I'm still here. Don't… not over…"

He didn't finish. He went upstairs and lay down on his bed and stared at the wall. Sometime in the small hours of the morning, he became asleep.

* * *

"G'mornin'."

"…_not again. Please."_

"M'sorry, I just–"

"_You're a nice guy, Berwald. Why are you still calling me?"_

"S'just…"

"_What? What is it 'just'? For once in your life, would you just _say_ something?"_

"I still love y'."

"_God, Berwald, you can't_– _I can't_– _Why are you doing this? Let me go."_

"Can't. Can't do that. Why did y'–"

"_We've been over this. You're not helping yourself by calling me every _damn_ week… w-would you just…"_

"…Y'cryin'? M'sorry, I didn't mean t'–"

"_I know that. I know. Just_–_ please. Please stop calling me. You're scaring me."_

"T'no–? T'no–"

Nothing.

* * *

Berwald stood in the hallway, one hand over his eyes, one hand cupping the receiver. Peter stood around the corner, listening, again. The man wasn't crying. Peter figured he wouldn't let himself do that. It was too apparent. With his face shielded, he took deep, ragged breaths. They sounded like the death rattle of a wounded beast.

After a moment, it stopped.

Peter looked down at a paper he'd clenched tightly between his two hands. Just another worksheet, with a marginally better grade than the last one – the kind of thing Berwald stuck to the fridge these days. He hadn't had anyone do that for him since... awhile.

But he really didn't feel like showing it off now. He really didn't feel like doing anything now.

He crumpled it up until it fit into one fist, then ascended the stairs to his room. Angry. But only in a way that made it sit in his stomach, sour and heavy.

Peter went to bed again, pretended to be sick, and made Berwald leave the chicken noodle soup at his door.


	3. The Third Segment

_"When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us."_

- Helen Keller

* * *

"This is what you do all day?"

Peter boosted himself up onto the surface of Berwald's work table, watching the man poring over a sketch, tweaking things here and there, adjusting measurements. The boy had homework, but all the quiet in the house did nothing to help his concentration. It just emphasized how small he was, in the empty space.

Berwald looked up. His eyes were rimmed with red. When he saw Peter looking, he took off his glasses and rubbed them.

"Late n'ght," he grumbled, resettling his glasses and focusing on Peter again. "What did y'ask?"

"Is this what you do all day?" Peter repeated, toneless as he glanced around the relatively empty workshop.

"Not all day," Berwald said. "This's just plannin'."

He went back to his sketch, and Peter began to flip through the other papers on the work surface. He was bored, but found he would rather sit in silence with Berwald than sit in silence alone.

"Why," he asked after a moment, thumbing through the sketches in his hands quickly, like they were a flipbook and would animate themselves under his touch, "do you keep drawing the same thing?"

Berwald looked like someone had hit pause. He'd frozen in the middle of removing his glasses to clean them, something Peter had often seen him doing when he was upset and wanted to distract himself. Now he was looking at the boy, intensely.

"What d'y'mean?"

Peter held up other sketches. "You haven't made one yet, but these are all a chair. The same chair."

Berwald set down his pencil very deliberately. He didn't look at Peter.

"S'a gift. Want t'get it right."

Peter looked at the sheaf in his hands, countless drawings of the same chair, each one revised or noted in some small way as imperfect.

"Is it ever going to be right?"

Berwald didn't say anything, but the silence wasn't like before. It was a drawn bowstring, packing lethal force, or, at the very least, a sharp snap. A nerve had been touched.

Peter had never been scared in Berwald's house. He still wasn't. Where his fear should have normally been kept was the weighty anger from the previous morning, but now it was smoldering. Berwald wasn't the cause of it, not at the root. But the way he was acting brought a pricked, black horror back up in Peter he'd thought buried. And he hated seeing it.

Somehow, though, he also didn't like seeing his 'dad' raw. And that's what he saw when he looked up, until the man shielded himself again.

"Out," Berwald said. He didn't say it angrily, or aggressively, or even dismally – he just said it, and his tone brooked no argument. Peter's lips drew together in a displeased line, and he pushed himself off the worktable, leaving through the same door he'd wandered in.

Berwald stayed where he was, staring down at the latest sketch. After a little while he put it away, and ordered out for Peter's lunch. While his son ate, he sat in the den with a book in his hands. He didn't read.

In his mind's eye, he was still looking at Tino's chair.

* * *

"Afternoon."

"_It is."_

"Would say sorry for not callin' earlier—"

"_Don't. You're still not supposed... to..."_

"...T'no?"

"_Yeah. I just— are you... okay? I mean, I know you're not 'okay', but... you aren't, y'know, doing anything... crazy, are you?"_

"No. No, m'not."

"_Okay. Glad to... to know that. But you really should stop this, i-it can't be good for us— uh, you... Yeah."_

A pause. Then—

"M'not gonna break it."

"_Break what, Berwald?"_

"Th'link. M'not gonna break it. I won't stop callin' till—"

"_Until when, Sve? Until you die? Until I change my number? Berwald, you—"_

"F'that's what it takes."

"_...what?"_

"F'that's what it takes, then I will."

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, like someone was either reaching the end of their wits or about to sob, and was still deciding.

"_Jesus, Berwald, you scare me sometimes. You really do. I have to go."_

"T'no—?"

Nothing.

* * *

Peter set down the receiver in the den after Berwald hung up the hall phone, feeling uneasy and more than a little angry again. He pulled his homework closer to him as Berwald walked in, but he really didn't have to cover. The man didn't look at him as he sank into his usual chair, obviously having done his quota of ragged breathing before entering the room.

Peter glanced at him, but didn't look long. His eyes were unfocused, like he'd been drinking, but without the plausible excuse.

"You gonna eat lunch?" he asked, gnawing on the end of his mechanical pencil as he surveyed his algebra assignment. Berwald might've nodded, but it was very light. He really hadn't heard Peter.

The boy looked at his guardian. "Sometime before dinner?"

No response this time. Berwald slumped in his chair and pulled over a magazine, something about 'the all-around handyman'. Peter had had it.

"Would you _get over yourself?"_ he snapped, shoving everything out of his lap and onto the floor. Berwald's head shot up, his expression startled. Peter snarled, all his bitterness from earlier and the week before and the week before that coloring his words.

"What are y'... " Berwald started to say, but the boy didn't let him get any farther.

"It's not like he died, or anything! Just forget him!"

Berwald's bewildered expression rapidly closed in on itself, the man having realized that his 'son' knew about his calls and his 'lost love'. He crossed his arms and seemed to sink in on himself, body language so heavily defensive as to be near-catatonic. Peter forced out something like an angry sigh, and was about to stomp off to his room when his guardian spoke again.

"Y're right. S'not like he died."

Peter turned until he was facing the man again. Berwald locked eyes with him, but what the boy saw there just made him more disgusted. He ran up the stairs to his room, flung open his door, and shut it, hard.

_Yeah. It's like _you_ died._

He wasn't angry anymore. He felt sick to his stomach, for real this time.

_If that's you how feel, why did you bring me into it?_

Peter locked his door and buried his face in his pillow and screamed until he couldn't scream anymore. He lay there for a while – for hours, really – hoarse and hungry and emotionally exhausted, until he finally got up the energy to drag himself out of bed. He slunk back down the stairs, and, on the landing, he picked up the scent of something cooking.

Or having been cooked. On the table, at his usual place, was a plate covered over with foil. Peter peeled it back to reveal simple Swedish meatballs and potatoes, a dish he liked more than take-out burgers, even though he would never say so.

There was a napkin tucked under the edge of the plate. In no-nonsense caps, it said, "SORRY."

Peter didn't doubt that he was sorry. He did doubt that Berwald knew what to be sorry for. He was sorry for a lot of things.

Peter put the foil back over his plate and took it with him upstairs, where he ate wrapped up in his coverlet, comforted by familiar food and warmth. He sighed as he put aside the cleared plate and dirty cutlery, dragging the duvet around his front as he looked down at his napkin note. After a little while, he put that aside too and bedded down, both thinking and trying not to think about the hollowness of his 'father''s eyes.

_I don't know why you brought me into this. But I'm not leaving without a fight._


	4. The Fourth Segment

_"The body is a house of many windows: there we all sit, showing ourselves and crying on the passers-by to come and love us."_

- Robert Louis Stevenson

* * *

"My parents kicked it first, y'know."

Peter sat in the passenger side of Berwald's unremarkable four-door car, staring out the window at rainy streets, talking to no one in particular. His 'father' was driving slowly, well below the speed limit, and had, up until that moment, been doing something similar to what the boy had been doing all along – staring out into nothing. Taking no sudden changes of subject or swerves into ditches as a positive sign, Peter continued.

"You probably figured that, since the paperwork said my brother was my last _related_ guardian, but they did die, actually. They didn't just run off."

Berwald didn't say anything, but he was listening.

"My brother had a boyfriend. His name was Alfred. Cocky, sure of himself. He made my brother feel like he was worth something."

Peter shifted, leaning on the car door, twisted in his seat to be facing as far away from Berwald as possible. His words had to be vulnerable. His body did not.

"He went to Iraq to be a hero. He was my hero, my brother's hero. He came home in a box."

Berwald's hands clenched the steering wheel a little tighter. He couldn't put his finger on why. Foreboding, maybe.

"My brother threw himself into working harder. Wanted to put money towards my education, so I wouldn't want to go into the army. He left me at daycare while he picked up an extra shift."

Peter spoke tonelessly. He might as well have been reading out of the phone book.

"A man there touched me. Repeatedly. I didn't know how to tell my brother. I was scared. But one day I did tell him. The man had left by then."

Scenery shifted outside the car's windows. Drab colors running into more drab colors.

"My brother left. Not physically. Mentally. He went away. He went through the motions, but there was no _there_ there. He didn't mean to. Just too much for him to handle."

They braked and accelerated in time with traffic lights. Berwald felt cold.

"He wasn't paying attention. He stepped off onto the subway tracks and touched the third rail. Goodbye, Arthur. I think it was a relief. He wasn't really here anymore."

Peter turned away from the window.

"Are you here, Berwald?"

Berwald's throat felt dry, his eyes burned, his lips twitched and moved as if trying to make an expression, or say something. The car came to a stop, and idled. Berwald looked at his foster son. Really looked at him.

"No," he finally said. "But... I could be."

Peter stared back for what felt like a long time. Then he got out and walked to the front doors of his school, slipping in among the crowd of other students hurrying to class. Just another kid.

Or he should've been.

Berwald sat in the drop-off lane and didn't look away from where Peter's back had been until someone honked behind him, startling him into motion.

* * *

Berwald got home and sat down in his chair and put his head in his hands and _thought_. About a lot of things. But two things in particular.

Peter. Tino.

He really didn't want to have to choose. Maybe he wouldn't have had to, if he'd been more rational about things. He was usually rational by nature. But... He didn't want to let go of Tino. He knew Peter didn't understand – hell, Tino didn't understand completely – but he also knew that Peter didn't care.

Tino didn't factor into his world. Berwald did.

And that made Berwald feel... well, what he'd wanted to feel – what he'd hoped to feel – when he applied to be a foster parent. When he fostered Peter.

He was needed. Really _needed_ by another human being.

Berwald got up and went into his workshop. He drew a stool up to his desk and pulled a sheaf of blank paper to him. He took up a knife-sharpened carpenter's pencil, and began to write a letter. Not to anyone in particular. Maybe to himself.

He didn't have to keep falling down. He couldn't, now. He'd told Peter he wouldn't.

When he finished, two hours later, he looked up at the clock. Then he went to make a phone call.

_Clean and quick. It has to be done._

_When you have a child, you don't get to just check out._

* * *

"G'mornin'."

"_...hi, Berwald."_

There was a pause, as if neither party knew what to say.

"_Um... was there any particular reason you called?"_

"Yeah."

There was another pause as Tino waited for Berwald to add something. He didn't.

"_Uh... which is...?"_

"Want'd t'hear y'r voice."

"_Berwald—"_

"Might... uh... s'_gonna_ be awhile. 'Fore I call aga'n."

"_Thank goodn—you're getting some help?"_

"Nnh. No. There's... someone I need t'spend time w'th."

"_Oh. Oh. You__—__ Oh."_

"M'sorry, T'no. Gotta go."

"_Oh. Uh. Good. Okay. Bye, Berwald."_

"Bye."


	5. The Fifth Segment

_"To love a person is to learn the song that is in their heart and sing it to them when they have forgotten."_

- Thomas Chandler

* * *

All through Berwald's house, the sound of the phone ringing reverberated. Peter was camped out at the dining room table, half doing homework and half anticipating what his foster father had dubbed "a s'prise" before leaving an hour earlier. The phone struck a discordant note among the house's natural quiet, and, after three rings, Peter decided to pick it up, despite the fact that he'd never fielded a call at his new home, if only to stop the noise.

He padded across the carpet to the nearest phone, the hall phone, and picked up, answering with a brusque, "Yeah?". He vaguely recalled having learned to say something about "this is so-and-so's residence, so-and-so speaking" from one of his more tolerable foster parents, but...

He got the feeling he wasn't going to like the person on the other end of the line. He couldn't put his finger on why, but the feeling put him in enough of a bad mood to dispose with pleasantries. There was a pause as Peter waited for the caller to say something. They'd obviously been caught off-guard.

"_Um. Hi. May I ask who's speaking?"_

Peter's first thought was something along the lines of, _'rude much?'_. His second thought was that he now knew why he'd answered the phone with foreboding. He knew this voice. And it was around the time of morning that Berwald used to put in his weekly calls.

Tino waited for Peter to declare himself. Feeling flippant, the boy reclined against the hall wall, an annoyed frown sprawling across his features, and posed the same question to the Finn.

"No, may _I_ ask who's speaking? You're calling my house, after all."

"_Your...? Um, excuse me. I'm Tino __Väinämöinen__. I'm calling for... is Berwald there?"_

"No."

"_Oh."_

"Yup."

"_And... um... you are?"_

Peter could've introduced himself, but just then he heard the sound of Berwald's keys jangling at the door, and the thought of being caught talking to his dad's ex-boyfriend did not appeal to him. Besides which, it wasn't like he was eager to stay on the line with someone he'd come to bitterly despise over the months since he'd been fostered.

He hung up unceremoniously and wandered into the kitchen, hearing the door shut and what sounded like several bags warring for space in the small entryway. He headed in that direction to see if he could offer any help, but what he saw stopped him dead.

"You've _got_ to be kidding me," he said.

"I never kid," Berwald replied, though, coming from him, it sounded less sarcastic and more like a statement of fact.

Peter reached for one of the fishing rods poking out of a shopping bag, fingering the smooth finish with something like wonder. Berwald unburdened himself and turned to the boy. The look on his face was still tired and bereaved, but also tinged with a little hope.

"Feel like an adv'nture?"

* * *

"Man. You suck at this."

"Hush y'. S'my first time tryin'."

Peter and Berwald leaned on the railing of a public dock, the boy keeping his fishing rod propped against the railing with one hand as the other attempted to help his father untangle his line.

"Of all the stereotypical father-son bonding rituals for you to attempt, you had to choose something you suck at, didn't you?" he asked, hissing as he almost hooked his finger. Berwald frowned, but it was more out of embarrassment than real displeasure.

"And how're y'so good?"

"Alfred used to take me fishing," the boy responded, deadpan. Berwald winced but pushed on.

"Ah. Mhm. Never did this w'th m'dad, but... Figur'd it was worth a try."

Peter turned to him with an expression that looked like he was trying very hard not to grin like an idiot.

"Yeah. Guess so."

After another moment of struggle, Berwald threw in the towel and cut the unyielding knot of clear fishing line away, letting out some new line as Peter set about re-stringing his hook. Baited and ready once more, Berwald cast his line, internally pleased when the light 'plunk' of the hook hitting the water sounded. It was much better than it getting hung up on the railing behind him again, the initial incident that had led to hopelessly tangled line.

A moment passed in silence, before Peter sighed and flopped back into the camp chair he'd unfolded, one hand still loosely gripping his rod to keep it from being dragged away, should he get a bite.

"And now we wait."

Berwald took a seat himself, propping his rod on his knee as he looked out over the water. Peter bit on his bottom lip, debating whether or not to mention the phone call from Tino. On the one hand he didn't want to put a damper on the tentatively relaxed mood, but on the other...

On the other hand, he was somewhat curious. There was a novel between the lines of everything Berwald did, one closely linked to Tino, and, selfishly, Peter couldn't help but want to read it. He took a breath, and broke the silence.

"Got a call while you were out."

Berwald stiffened. It was like he knew what was coming – he could probably tell, just from the tone of Peter's voice.

"... it was T'no, then?"

Peter nodded, twisting his hand just enough to make his bobber jump slightly in the water. Berwald sighed, mood definitely dampened, but the tension left his shoulders and he sunk back into his chair.

_'Probably the first time he's missed a call in over a year,'_ Peter mused, watching his father out of the corner of his eye. Berwald was staring out to where his line met the water, lost in thought.

"What happened?" the boy asked, blunt as the first time they'd met. Berwald felt like he'd been waiting for the question since the day Peter had told his story. An equal exchange had lingered at the fringes of his thoughts since he'd gotten home. It was what had written the letter, more so than his hand.

"D'you believe in true love, Pet'r?" he asked, wincing inwardly at how clichéd the words sounded. His son just gave him a look.

"Do I _look_ like I would believe in something like that?"

Berwald frowned sheepishly. "No. Y'really don't. But, it was... it was like that. F'r me, 'nyway."

"...not for Tino, I guess...?"

"No. Well, don't r'lly know f'r sure."

There was a lull in conversation as another small family passed, Berwald blatantly self-conscious about talking personal matters, especially with even a _passing_ audience.

"You don't really know?"

Berwald sighed and switched the knee his rod was propped on. "Think it was timin', mostly. Bad timin'. Both of us just got outta bad relationsh'ps, and..."

Peter had to admit a little irritation with the way the man tended to trail off after producing short sentences, but he persevered.

"And?"

"Came on too strong. When we met... just... s'like I knew him, like I'd been waitin' f'r him all along. S'what it seem'd like, comin' outta a nasty breakup..."

Another pause, but this time Berwald continued without prompting. "Feelin' wasn't mutual. Mighta been, but he'd just come from a man who overpower'd him, and th'intensity... w'th m'face..."

Peter frowned lightly. "He freaked?"

"Not too badly, a'first. Built up over time. And I could feel it. Got anxious. Start'd checkin' up on him all th'time, callin' constantly..."

Berwald set aside his rod and slipped his glasses off, cleaning them with intense concentration, head bowed. He plowed along anyway. It was his first time articulating out loud what he had put down on paper days back.

"Needed him so much. _Too much._ Didn't know how t'handle it. We were a'ready fallin' apart when th'damn chair thing..."

He put his glasses back on and straightened up, self-loathing dripping from his voice, though his expression was unchanged. Peter quirked a brow, but kept his eyes on the calm water in front of them.

"The 'chair thing'?"

"It was stup'd, r'lly," Berwald said. "His b'rthday was comin' up, so I start'd inquirin' 'bout what t'get him..."

The sun had begun to set by this time, and Peter wondered absently at how much time they'd managed to spend getting to, and being at, the lake. A cool breeze whispered across Peter's half-exposed legs, the shorts he'd worn no longer seeming like a practical choice as the temperature dropped. Still, he focused on the man beside him. Berwald's speech was becoming even more hesitant than before, nearing a tender subject, speaking more than he probably had at any other point in his life.

"Found out 'bout an old fam'ly heirloom. He'd mention'd it a few times – just an old rockin' chair his great-great-great-granmoth'r had made. He lov'd th'thing, but didn't want t'use it in th'house 'cause he was 'fraid it would be damag'd... I want'd t'make a repl'ca he could use, but he kept it in storage f'r safe keepin'."

Peter looked at him closely, disbelief starting to creep onto his features. Berwald sighed and ran a hand down his face wearily.

"You _didn't."_

"Told y' I handl'd things badly. Was half-_crazy_, r'lly. I broke into his storage un't t'get th'chair, but, course, secur'ty got me. Only got a glance at th'damn thing."

Peter hissed sympathetically, despite the fact that Berwald looked like the last thing he wanted was sympathy. He looked like he wanted to fill his pockets with rocks and walk into the lake. But he kept on.

"Got turn'd over t'th'cops. T'no had t'come bail me out. Breakin' and enterin'. Attempt'd theft."

_"Jesus..."_

"Was so, _so_ stup'd. Mean, how was I suppos'd t'explain th'repl'ca, even if I had gotten away w'th stealin' th'chair? _Faeries_ told me 'bout it? _Friend of a friend?_ I wasn't thinkin' straight."

Berwald glanced over at Peter, who'd unconsciously started to shiver, and rushed the last of what he said.

"That was pr'tty much it. On top of ev'rything else, kind of obsess'd... he just... said he need'd space. A break. Month turn'd into two. Then more."

"Calling probably didn't help," Peter guessed, and Berwald nodded.

"S'over," he said, and, with a jolt, realized it was the first time he'd admitted it, to himself or anyone else. Peter seemed to be thinking very deeply, processing what he'd heard, but, after a moment, he broke what had become a tense and awkward (at least on Berwald's end) silence.

"Is that why you fostered me?" he asked, carefully toneless.

"Would y'think less of me if I said 'yes'?"

"Uh. Yeah."

There was a pause as Berwald bowed his head, and Peter frowned in annoyance.

"So, I guess you'll just have to keep your mouth shut, huh?"

"Y'mean..."

"Yeah, we're cool. I mean, as long as you don't go creepy on me like you did with Tino. Dads only get so many phone calls, 'checking in', before somebody has to draw the line."

Peter and Berwald stared each other down, the latter _almost _smiling, before he spoke again.

"Pet'r?"

"Yeah."

"Think y'got a bite."

There was a pause as both father and son stared at the sporadically jerking line. Then—

"You've _got_ to be kidding me."


	6. The Sixth Segment

_"Moving on is simple; it is what you leave behind that makes it difficult."_

- Unknown

* * *

Tino didn't know what he was doing. Not really. His plan was simple, but the lack of thought behind it was what so worried him. He had decided, after spending most of what should've been a ten minute drive to the grocery store driving around aimlessly for an hour, that he had to do something to clarify his thoughts.

His thoughts about Berwald.

As much as receiving weekly phone calls had distressed him, _not_ receiving them had a much worse effect on his peace of mind. At least when he woke up late on Saturdays to the ringing of his phone, he could get a good idea of what was going on with Berwald that week. Still not adjusting, still wants us to get back together, still as tenacious as ever, etc.

He'd been woken, these last three Saturdays, by the silence. No idea what was going on, or even if Berwald was still alive.

He couldn't say he was fine with that.

Tino was not the type of person who could wash his hands of a man like Berwald easily. For all his overprotective tendencies, for all his startling presence, Tino knew the man had been in love with him. It was a very new experience. The Finn had dated many, _many_ people, but had never before looked at someone and known for sure – somewhere within him – that they were soul-struck, head-over-heels, _absolutely _in love. With _him_. It was flattering, to make a rather obvious understatement.

It also would've been _amazing_, if the time had been right, and both parties had handled it well. It wasn't. They hadn't.

Tino pulled up to a familiar street corner, four houses down from his destination. He leaned heavily on the steering wheel and took deep, deep breaths.

What Berwald had done, over something so silly, was inexcusable. But Tino couldn't entirely remove himself from fault, either. Berwald had wanted him, every aspect of him, the good _and_ the bad. Had _needed_ him. Had let the Finn know this _explicitly_.

It was the scariest thing Tino had ever experienced. He hadn't wanted any part of it. And Berwald had invariably felt that.

He still didn't want it, he would tell himself. He wanted a nice, _normal_ relationship, with someone who wouldn't demand more of him than he wanted; one he could break off without falling apart. Something tame, with someone more... mellow.

But he couldn't accept that his wish for a less involved relationship might cause Berwald's suicide. And that was what he'd been half anticipating the last time Berwald had called. He'd sounded so... _final_, so _decided_. When he'd said he just wanted to hear Tino's voice, the Finn had been fully prepared to launch into a full on 'it's not worth it, there's more to life' speech, even though he doubted it would be very effective.

And then Berwald had said he needed to see someone else. And hung up, essentially.

Tino straightened up behind the wheel of his car, brow creased in thought as his hands gripped and released the cool plastic. Add to that the fact that when he, out of concern, had brought himself to call his ex, someone else had answered. The voice had sounded a little young, but it had definitely been male, and annoyed at him, as if the person on the other end of the line had known who he was.

Which had brought him to an interesting thought, being – had Berwald begun to date again?

Tino's second reaction was positive – thank God, the man was finally letting go, after almost a damn _year._

His _first_ reaction had been a slight queasy feeling, which he conveniently blamed on the somewhat upsetting thought of the Swede picking someone at random to use as a replacement. His first reaction was also what had him parking and getting out of his car on Berwald's street, with a half-assed plan thought up in the grocery store parking lot. Go to his house, ring the bell, ask how he was, get out. Everything would be fine, he could more than handle this, excuses would come to him naturally after he conquered the initial anxiety...

But there he was, on the front stoop, having rung the bell, completely thrown for a loop. Berwald's car was in the drive, lights were on behind the dining room curtains, but no one was coming to the door. He rang again, and waited several minutes, fidgeting on the doorstep as his anxiety grew. Maybe things had already fallen apart with his new flame? Then Berwald could be... Tino stopped himself before he exaggerated the situation.

Something _was_ off about the house. He really couldn't say what it was, but—

Actually, he could. He sniffed the air experimentally, realizing what was out of place.

He was smelling wood smoke. In May. A particularly mild May, for that matter. After a moment more of focusing on the scent, he picked up on something else. Somewhere in the backyard, an enthusiastic voice was calling, shouting things the Finn couldn't quite make out.

Tino bit his lip, took a deep breath, and struck out along the side of the house.

* * *

"Do I _have_ t'dance?"

"Yes, yes, you _have_ to dance; that's the most important part! C'mon! Wait— first, hand me that box. Yeah, that one."

Berwald reached to his left and tossed his son a small box, which turned out to be full of _hundreds_ of small doilies, each one carefully embroidered with a cross. He raised a brow about as far as it was going to go. Peter just laughed.

"Had a foster parent who was... _fascinatingly_ religious. I mean, if you find taping a sign above the toilet that says 'masturbate and you're going to Hell' fascinating. She made these for me every time I did something she disapproved of. I think there was supposed to be some kind of... point there, but..."

He shrugged and grabbed a handful of doilies out of the box, sprinkling them with unseemly enthusiasm on what was now a roaring bonfire. Briefly, Berwald wondered if he was allowed to have fires this big on his property, but the sound of Peter's laughter chased the thought away. The boy did a quick bound around the blaze, charming a small chuckle out of his father, before returning to his side, winded.

"Like I said," Peter whispered, breathless, "the dancing is the most important part. Now, what've you got for this _most sacred_ 'cleansing ritual'?"

Berwald held out the letter he'd written. "First on th'pyre."

Peter took it and winged it straight into the heart of the blaze, happy that it was heavy enough not to flutter as he threw it. Berwald watched, contemplative, as the envelope curled and separated, blackened at the edges, revealing several fast-catching pages of neat writing. Within moments all that remained was the outline in ash, and Peter turned to his father with a soft grin.

"That's progress," he said. "I'll give you one more free burn before you have to dance too."

Berwald nodded gravely and reached underneath the kitchen chair he was perched on, retrieving the sheaf of sketches from his workshop. Peter took only one, much to the man's chagrin, and added it to the fire. Then he turned on him expectantly.

"C'mon! You can do this. Get in touch with your primal side!"

Peter started off around the edge of the fire again, spinning and jumping and generally acting wild. Berwald was content to watch for a moment, but thoughts of what would be an _astoundingly _interesting emergency room visit to explain if Peter tripped into the fire eventually got him out of his seat. The boy watched his unenthusiastic meandering with a critical eye.

"Seriously, you can do better than that. It's not like anyone's watching!"

"Pet'r, r'lly..."

"I'm not taking no for an answer!"

Berwald rolled his eyes but increased his slow walk around the blaze into a half-hearted trot, accented with the occasional turn to keep Peter off his back. The boy himself seemed to be having the time of his life, having picked up another one of the few boxes next to where Berwald had been sitting in order to spill its contents onto the fire. The Swede reclaimed his sketches and, slowly, began to let them drift into flaming oblivion. Peter cheered him on. Berwald waved him off.

He felt ridiculous dancing around a bonfire, burning things he'd kept to remind himself of Tino... but he had to admit his son had been right about one thing – it was therapeutic.

"Just don't mention it to my counsellor," the boy had said. "He thinks asking me how I feel about everything works better. And my last foster father is still trying to figure out how all his belts ended up in a flaming brush pile."

After another couple minutes of enthusiastic purging by fire, Peter was toast, and he collapsed onto the grass, well away from the blaze, to catch his breath and laugh. Berwald ambled over to join him, taking off his glasses and tucking them in his pocket to lessen the fire's intensity on his eyes. He looked to where his son lay, looking more relaxed and pleased than ever before.

"Y'havin' fun?" the man asked, reclining himself.

"Are you kidding me? Who _doesn't_ love setting stuff on fire?"

Berwald let a half smile slip across his features, and Peter got a little more serious. "Did this do anything for you, or are you just freaked about how much ash you're gonna have to shovel?"

"Me, shovelin'? Y're th'one who want'd th'burnin'."

"What? _Dad!"_

Berwald ignored the light punch in the shoulder he'd been dealt and sobered a bit. "Dunno 'bout all this. Guess it'll sink in lat'r. Certainly symbl'c, tho'."

"Guess so," Peter agreed, rolling so he was facing the man. "Welcome to your new life, or something."

He played it off as a joke, but Berwald caught the implied 'thank you'.

Peter took another moment of rest and cool-down time before he was up again, determined to burn everything they'd set aside before darkness took over and made their blaze too apparent.

Secluded behind the high wooden fence that enclosed the backyard, Tino had listened and watched with equal measures of disbelief and guilt for eavesdropping. He had not failed to recognize the sketches Berwald had burnt, just as he had not failed to hear what Peter had finally decided to start calling his foster father. When he was back in the relative safety of his car, he repeated the word over to himself, as if to test whether he'd really understood it. Whether it was tangible. Whether he could _believe_ it.

"'Dad'...? Christ, Berwald, what have you _done?"_


	7. The Seventh Segment

_"It is only when we silent the blaring sounds of our daily existence that we can finally hear the whispers of truth that life reveals to us, as it stands knocking on the doorsteps of our hearts."_

- K.T. Jong

* * *

"Well, Mr. Oxenstierna, your application is certainly in order."

Berwald fidgeted in his chair, situated squarely in a small cubicle at the desk of a kindly-looking woman, all gray hair and pastel button-down. A pair of reading glasses were propped on her nose as the woman scanned through Peter's file, carefully sorting out the pertinent papers and reading a snatch here and there.

"Completed all required training classes, _exceeded_ the designated waiting period... You're certainly more than able to provide for the boy, and your home meets size requirements..."

Berwald nodded, even though he knew the woman was speaking rhetorically, if only for something to do that gave him a more enthusiastic appearance. He couldn't do much with the look on his face, and, while he thought seriousness gave a good impression, he didn't want to come off as cold or uninterested. This was the most deciding moment in his life, he felt, entirely eclipsing his coming out _and_ the incident with Tino's chair.

The woman took off and folded her glasses, closing the file and letting them rest on it, before looking back to Berwald.

"Have you consulted with an attorney regarding any legal concerns?"

"Yes," he replied. Of course he had. Nearly a month ago now, just after he'd made up his mind, once and for all. The woman looked like it was taking an undue amount of effort to keep a smile on. Her eyes dipped once again to his file, then up to Berwald himself, dressed sharply in a dark suit and blue silk tie.

"Mr. Oxenstierna, you certainly _qualify_... but you must understand my concern. You are a single man, and with Peter's record of violent reactions to male figures..."

Berwald cleared his throat, a little aggravated. "Records don't cover _ev'rything_."

She pursed her lips at his implications about Peter's previous fathers. "If Peter had any complaints about his treatment in the care of previous foster families, he did not voice them, despite being given ample occasion to do so."

Berwald let the subject drop, acknowledging that pursuing it further wouldn't earn him any points with the woman.

"Look," he said, "I und'rstand y'r concern. But if y're r'lly worried 'bout how Pet'r's gettin' along, why don't y'just schedule an int'rview?"

"I plan to do just that," she stated, tucking Peter's file into her bag. "After, of course, collecting an updated psychological assessment from Peter's therapist. But..."

He looked up at the woman as she stood, expecting the worst.

"...in all likelihood, your formal adoption of Peter Kirkland will be finalized in short order. Congratulations in advance, Mr. Oxenstierna."

* * *

Tino sat at his kitchen table, a mug of coffee cradled between his fingers, once again thinking very hard. The facts were these:

Firstly, there was a boy who, apparently, lived at Berwald's house.

Secondly, said boy seemed to hate him with every fiber of his somewhat stunted being.

Thirdly, the boy called Berwald 'dad'.

There was also the whole giant bonfire thing, but Tino pushed that aside for a moment. Even with the boy calling Berwald 'dad', it didn't look good. He could draw endless conclusions from what little he'd seen, but he shot down the vast majority for implausibility. It certainly didn't look good, but Tino felt comfortable discarding the possibility that the Swede was a pedophile. In the four months they'd been together, Tino had gotten what he considered a solid impression of the man, and... well, child abuse didn't mesh. He wouldn't have been able to testify as to why, _exactly_, but he wasn't under an oath anyway. He could trust his feelings more absolutely.

With that safely removed from the list of possibilities... a lot of things were left swirling in his mind. Relative, or the child of a relative? Their hair certainly seemed similar enough... but that didn't mean anything, and the kid had said, very clearly, _'dad'_. Maybe the son of a new boyfriend? Tino really didn't think it possible that any romantic interest of Berwald's would leave a child unattended with the near-terrifying man and an enormous bonfire. Secret love child?

The thought made Tino blanch. He didn't even want to think about Berwald having impregnated some poor woman and then abandoned her.

The Finn shook his head vigorously, no longer interested in musing on what 'Peter' was to his ex-boyfriend. He downed the dregs of his coffee and busied himself with hand-washing his mug, eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond the open window above his sink.

There was another set of facts he couldn't ignore. The fact that there was now a new person in Berwald's life, the fact that the Saturday morning phone calls had stopped altogether, the fact he'd been burning things like a letter, and sketches of the chair...

The man was changing, had already been changed. It was apparent in the snippets of interaction he had with his 'son', in the small laugh he'd let escape, in the way he _walked._

"That's good," he said to himself. "Yes. That's good. Improvement."

So why did he feel sick? He wasn't so juvenile as to pretend the feeling was an actual illness. He was perfectly fine, medically. This was because of what was happening with Berwald. But why would Berwald changing hurt him? He didn't want a relationship with the man.

_Right?_

Tino set the clean mug aside and glanced at something on his wall calendar— namely, its distinct blankness. No plans. No plans for awhile now. Berwald wasn't the only one who'd kept out of relationships since their breakup, despite Tino ostensibly wanting a new boyfriend. Wanting safety.

For a moment, standing in his kitchen, alone, Tino wondered whether he was really the mature one. The one handling things healthily. The one who'd actually moved on.

And then he got ready for work, left, and didn't think about it again for the rest of the day.

_Everything wasn't going to be alright.  
_


	8. The Eigth Segment

_"If you like your kids – if you love them from the moment they begin – you yourself begin all over again, in them, with them, and so there is something more to the world again."_

- William Saroyan

* * *

Once again, the start of a new week found Berwald driving Peter to school. There was a calm silence in the car, both of them seeming to agree that it was too early in the morning to do anything as productive as talk. 'Seem' was the operative word, however, as Peter was the only one legitimately letting his thoughts drift in the still place between the bed he'd risen out of and the class he would soon be attending. Berwald's mind was occupied – in high gear, firing on all cylinders – despite the hour.

How, he wondered, do you ask someone for permission to make them a part of your family? How do you turn to someone and just _say_ something like that? Berwald had never been talkative. He'd never gotten experience with things like 'broaching topics' or 'beating around the bush'.

And he hadn't asked Peter before visiting his case worker. He hadn't wanted to get the boy's hopes up. He hadn't known if he'd be allowed to take Peter in, and he hadn't wanted to inflict more damage on a child trying so hard to heal.

Now he had to not only ask permission, but also alert Peter to the fact that, any day now, his case worker – a woman he _really_ didn't care for – would be dropping in for what she would most likely label a 'little chat'. The most important 'little chat' of either of their lives.

Well. Berwald had to start sometime.

"Pet'r?" he began. The boy looked up, snapped out of whatever half-dream he'd been quietly appreciating.

"What's up?" he asked, a bit alarmed by the hesitance of his father's voice. Berwald took a short breath and let the words tumble out on their own.

"Would... would y'like t'stay w'th me?"

Now Peter looked really alarmed, and Berwald was inwardly kicking himself. _'Way to go,' _he mused._ 'Another amazingly bad delivery courtesy of the Swede to your left.'_

"Of course I wanna stay with you!" the boy insisted. "What's going on? Did you get a call from the services? I swear to God, I'll—"

"No, no, no," Berwald quickly backpedaled, grateful when they reached a stoplight so he could give Peter his full attention. "What I meant t'say was... s'it okay if I adopt y'?"

The look on Peter's face was somewhere between mind-blown and incredulous.

"You— I— _what?"_

Berwald cleared his throat, having to fix his attention on the road again as the light changed.

"Went t'see y'r case work'r yest'rday. Said evr'ything was n'order. If y'd like t'be m'son f'r real, I mean."

Peters expression hadn't changed. Or, really, that wasn't entirely accurate. Alongside the shock and the disbelief came fear and hope, bitterly entwined.

"Are you serious...? Are you _bloody_ serious?"

Berwald snapped off a quick nod, nerves and common sense kept him facing straight forward, eyes locked with pavement as it unrolled in front of him.

"Stop the car," Peter said. His tone betrayed nothing of what he was feeling, and, worried, Berwald obliged by pulling over onto the shoulder.

"Pet'r—"

And then whatever else he was about to say was lost as the boy unbuckled his seat belt and leaned over the console between them, gripping his foster father in a painfully tight hug. Berwald probably resembled Peter from a few moments earlier, shocked and frozen in place. And then he slowly folded the boy up in his arms and held him.

He'd done this before with various boyfriends, and the occasional childhood companion farther back. But the meaning, the _feeling, _this time was so radically different. It was warmth of a different flavor, the kind he'd felt in small amounts over the past few days, and what he'd felt surge in him when he finally made up his mind to file his adoption application.

Berwald sat in his car, awkwardly hugging his soon-to-be son, and found, for the first time, he had a name for the feeling. For this thing that he'd been made to see was so strongly mutual.

It was the bond of a parent and a child— the unbreakable, unconditional kind that explained extraordinary feats like a mother lifting a minivan off her child, a close-minded father accepting a gay son, or either parent fielding 'The Talk'.

And he knew for sure now that he shared it with Peter. The revelation was both startling and gratifying.

Their hug lasted only a moment – Peter drawing back and coughing slightly out of embarrassment and an obvious wish to get on the road again – but the feeling remained. Berwald started the car again, straightened his tie, and, without hesitating, continued with what he need to say.

"She wants t'do n'int'rview w'th y' 'fore s'finalized."

"No problem," Peter replied, nonchalant, once again staring out the window—but now with a new-found energy.

"Need t'know whether y'want t'keep Kirkl'nd," the Swede continued, smoothly turning the car into the drive leading to Peter's school. "Y'can take Ox'nstierna, if y'want."

"If it's all the same to you, I'll keep Kirkland, but as my middle name," the boy decided. "Never had one of those anyway."

"Changin' y'r last name could cause trouble w'th school," Berwald warned. Peter gave him a look.

"Seeing that you're an intimidating, six foot tall Swede with untold numbers of hammers and table legs and other blunt objects at your disposal, I feel confident you can handle some paper work. And whatever the school district can throw at you."

Berwald frowned so lightly it resembled an amused smirk. "True."

He stopped when it was his turn to let Peter out, the boy grabbing his backpack out of the floorboard and hitching it over a shoulder as he opened the car door.

"B'safe," he said, as he had every other time he'd dropped the boy off. Somehow, the words felt heavier now. Like they had more weight. When Peter turned around to reply, Berwald saw what he'd carefully directed out the window after their brief pit stop and hug. Peter was really, _really_ happy, down to the roots of him and all the way back out again. The words 'overjoyed', 'ecstatic' and 'embarrassed about both previous adjectives' sprang to mind.

"Yeah," he replied. "And, Dad?"

"Mhm?"

"Thanks."

And then Berwald smiled. If Peter had been a poet, he might have said it was glorious. As it was, he was a teenager, and so he thought it was cheesy and he got embarrassed and shut the car door quickly, scurrying off to class.

Berwald's smile didn't stay for very long, soon replaced by a focused expression. He had a goal now. He was going to adopt that child, no matter what it took. He would make a good impression on the case worker as a father, and his house would make a good impression as a home. Hopefully. After he got back and cleaned it again.

He had no doubts about how Peter would do. It was that bond thing at work again. He knew innately that the boy would show startling maturity and conviction, partly because Berwald had already seen that part of his character in action, and partly because he trusted him.

Peter wanted to become his son. And when Peter put his mind to something, he usually got his way.

Berwald would know.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Tino had decided to do something similar to what Berwald had done, but sans inexplicable child, and the way_ he_ always did things. He was going to get past whatever his issue with Berwald was, and he was going to put _two hundred_ percent of his effort into it.

He'd had Berwald's phone number blocked. He'd wanted to just change his number, make things a little more clean on both ends, but that was much harder to do with a landline than it was with a cell phone. He'd changed his cell too, but Berwald had known the landline since they'd first started to date, and Tino didn't want to accidentally run the risk of ending up on the phone with the one person he was now going out of his way to avoid.

He'd found a therapist and made an appointment for the following week, despite having to muscle his way (via a charming conversation with he man's personal assistant) past a queue of other waiting patients. Tino hadn't chosen just _any_ therapist. He'd found the best one five cities over.

Tino had done something similar to Peter's cleansing ritual in that he'd gathered up anything and _everything_ that reminded him of Berwald, and bagged it for disposal. Really, he would've moved out of town entirely, if he'd had any leeway in his budget to do so.

Lastly, he had called up a few old friends and managed to end up with a blind date two weeks out.

Two hundred percent recovery. He wouldn't settle for anything but the complete avoidance and eventual eradication of his ex's memory. He would not be the unhealthy one. His pride held him to that. He was resolved never to see Berwald Oxenstierna _ever_ again.

But the universe has an interesting way of triumphing over man's resolve. Even when it is supposedly at two hundred percent.


	9. The Ninth Segment

_"Coincidence is the word we use when we can't see the levers and pulleys." _

- Emma Bull

* * *

"What 'lse s'on th'list?"

"We've got spaghetti, those meatballs that you just microwave, garlic bread… sauce! We need sauce."

Berwald did a U-turn as Peter switched sides of their shopping cart, heading back towards a section they'd passed, which he thought he'd seen pasta sauce in. 'Italian Night' had been Peter's idea— an attempt to add some variety to their week, and to channel some of their mutual nervousness about the boy's interview the next day into experimentation. So far, Berwald was having more fun trying to shop with the kid than anything else. Before, he'd always done the shopping while he was at school, but today—

"Wait, this isn't the sauce aisle! Turn left, _left!"_

"A'right, _a'right…"_

Berwald swung the cart again as his son spotted the correct aisle, Peter leading the charge between shelves stocked with varying glass and tin containers, looking for some tomato sauce in particular, maybe something he'd had before. Berwald had stopped at the end cap.

Tino had stopped too.

"Dad?" Peter asked, glancing between Berwald and the much shorter, equally startled looking man, who'd frozen in the middle of the aisle, a jar in his hands. Peter didn't recognize him. He'd never seen pictures of his father's old flame. "What's up? Dad?"

'Caught off-guard' would have been a quaint way of describing the Finn. He looked like a deer in the headlights. Finally, Berwald spoke.

"Hello, T'no."

And then Peter wasn't interested in tomato sauce anymore, or anything else, for that matter. His eyes were sharpened on Tino, and they had the same cagey look about them as they had the first night he'd been fostered to Berwald. This time, however, there was a more territorial feel. More protective.

It took an employee bustling by, humming some new pop song, for them to break out of their three-way standoff.

"Oh. Um. Berwald. Hi. Didn't expect to run into you here," Tino mumbled, ducking his head, as if to remove himself from an invisible line of fire.

"Mm," Berwald seemed to agree. He looked over at his son, starting a bit when he realized he hadn't introduced the two. "Pet'r, this's T'no. T'no, this's Pet'r. M'foster son."

'For now,' was implied, though only between Berwald and his son. Tino's mouth made a little 'o', and he seemed to take a breath again. "It's nice to meet you, Peter."

"Hi," the boy deadpanned, making it very clear the pleasure wasn't mutual. Berwald donned a slightly guilty look for his attitude, one that Tino didn't miss. A tense silence stretched the air. Berwald wanted to run away, Peter wanted to chase the Finn off, and Tino—

Tino didn't know what he wanted to do. He'd known for a second there, he was sure, before Berwald had turned the corner, pursuing Peter with a tiny smile just turning the corners of his mouth, and his mind had been blown.

He should have taken it as a sign that things hadn't gone well in their relationship, he thought now, that he'd never seen Berwald smiling. It'd always been Berwald frowning at another man, or Berwald's carefully impassive expression when Tino requested not to be called quite so often, or Berwald's heartbroken expression when... well, his heart had been broken.

And there was the sick feeling again, and Tino coughed and turned to his good friend Small Talk to fill what was, by then, an insufferable silence.

"So, trying something new this evening?" Tino guessed, nervously running his eyes over the contents of the other man's cart for something to do, fidgeting under what he thought was an intense glare.

Berwald's look, to be entirely clear, was a more a collection of confused glances than anything else. Peter was the one taking it upon himself to glare like Tino's appearance in the local supermarket was the second coming of the _anti_christ.

"Mmh, yeah. 'Talian night. Pet'r suggest'd it."

"That's nice."

Silence again. In the unoccupied space Berwald _really_ focused on Tino, the way he'd _really_ focused on Peter after his reality check in the car that fateful morning. He took in the little details—the chewed thumbnails, the undue skittishness, the dark bags under his dull lilac eyes. Alongside the tarnished "true love", which the man would carry with him to his deathbed, came a bloom of _pity._

If he'd looked anywhere close to that bad, it was no wonder Peter had asked him if he was _there_. And Tino, unlike himself, probably believed he was perfectly fine. Or, if not fine, at least in control of what he was dealing with.

_Yeah, right._

Without warning, words spilled out of the Swede's mouth that made Peter stare at him in disbelief and Tino almost drop the sauce he was holding. "Y'want t'eat with us?"

"_What?"_ Peter and Tino said, simultaneously. Berwald might have been amused if he hadn't been so serious.

"Said, 'y'want t'eat with us?'"

Tino's intention was to say 'no'. Really. What he'd meant to be a decisive rejection, came out sounding more like, "I-I wouldn't want to trouble you..."

To which Berwald responded, "Y'wouldn't."

To which he could only say, "Um. Well. If you're sure you'd like me to..."

To which Berwald insisted, "'Course."

After which, he was left to mumble something like, "...okay."

And it was done.

Tino didn't know what had possessed him. Peter didn't know what had possessed his father. But Berwald knew exactly what he was doing. He was doing Tino the same favor Peter had done him, for the same reasons.

Their relationship was over, and Berwald was at peace with that. But he still loved Tino, and the man needed to face facts.

_You can't be 'okay' all the time._

* * *

Tino was dearly regretting his rushed decision, left alone at the dining table with Peter, Berwald having gotten up to check on the garlic bread. On a better day, in the company of anyone else, he would've been the life of the party. He'd kept the floundering conversation around the table resuscitated with hesitant chatter. His hands had sometimes risen from his lap to weave pictures of what he was talking about, before he realized himself and trapped them between his knees again.

He was struggling. So much.

But the dynamic was what had caught and held Peter's attention. Having now been in the closest quarters since their breakup, Berwald and Tino had settled into what the boy could only assume had been the normal function of their relationship. Which was bizarre, he observed. Tino was treating Berwald like he was dangerous. Berwald was treating Tino like he was made of spun glass.

Neither man's approach was very effective.

"So, Peter," Tino started off, breaking up the suffocating silence that had consumed them since Berwald had excused himself to the kitchen, "what, um, is your school—"

"Why are you here?" Peter asked, suddenly, cutting the man off before he could ask something pointless about his education. Tino blinked.

"...what?"

"I'm asking you," Peter repeated, "_why are you here?"_

"Berwald invited me—"

"Yeah, I know— I was there," the boy pointed out, "but why did you _accept?"_

"Why shouldn't I have?"

"You tell me," Peter said. "I definitely don't know. I don't know _you. _You hurt him—you still do, though he's getting better. That leads me to wonder, why are you here?"

Tino looked shell-shocked. It took him a moment to rally his words, to make thoughts line up coherently. Neither he nor Peter paused to wonder what could be taking Berwald so long in the kitchen. The Finn looked down into his hands, and then back up, this time with a little fire.

"What happened, between me and Berwald… I don't—I don't have to justify it to you."

Peter just looked at him. "You're here to see what changed, right?"

"No, I—" Tino stopped. What use was there in lying? Could he come up with a better reason than had been provided by his this child, his ex-boyfriend's adopted _son_, of all people? The answer was 'no', so he let it lie, knowing that Peter would pull the truth out of his lack of response. The boy looked down at his plate very intently.

"I'm just a kid, so I'm allowed to be selfish."

Tino's brow creased in confusion. "Huh?"

Peter looked up. He looked feral. He looked like a kid who'd been through a lot, had been tossed around, and, finally, when he had something good within his grasp, felt the threat of it being taken away.

He looked like he wasn't fucking around.

"Berwald is my dad," he said, voice low. "I haven't had a dad before, but _he's _my dad now. When I first met him, he wasn't. He was _your_ ex-boyfriend. He's finally here, though, outside of _that _capacity, and he's _happy_."

Tino looked at the boy, very small against Berwald's big dining room chair, and felt chilled.

"But he still loves you. He's buried that, 'cause he needs so badly to get on with things, but he still does."

Peter leaned over the table towards Tino, and, without meaning to, Tino felt himself lean back, if only just a tiny bit.

"I don't like that," the boy continued. "I don't like it one _bit._ But I know it, and I've accepted it as being the way of things. And that's why you're here, 'cause Dad can see what everyone can—you're finally falling apart."

Tino started to object, though he didn't know what to object with, other than his pride. But Peter wasn't done.

"—you're falling apart, and he cares about you, so he doesn't _want_ you to fall apart. He's gonna try to help you, even if you only end up leaving for someone else after you're fixed. Even if that hurts him more than anything. So, in my own self-interests, I wanna make a deal."

He folded, his hands, very business-like, and laid it out.

"You can finish diner and leave. Dad's gonna try to help you, but he's probably not going to get very far, seeing as you wanna pretend you're fine without him. Great. Door Number One is, you leave un-helped, have a meltdown on your own time, and then see somebody else."

Tino was starting to feel vaguely offended, but he didn't try to stop Peter. Interjecting would've only stretched this out longer, and they would've run the risk of Berwald walking in on it. Which would be messy and mortifying and utterly, _indescribably_ horrible. For Tino.

"Door Number Two is: _you let him try_. After a while, maybe you call. Maybe I'll talk to him, encourage him. Maybe you two'll get together and sort out your issues, like you should've done a long time ago. Probably doesn't sound as appealing as Door Number One. But Dad's the guy, I think, you need to talk to about this, to get back on your feet — not the overpriced therapist you've probably already called."

Tino blanched. It was like the child could read his mind. "What's the caveat for this deal? I'm waiting for the 'but'."

Peter leaned back in his chair. "_But,_ if you pour your troubles into my dad's hands, you do it for him. Door Number Two is, you get helped so you can try again with Dad— but with better timing."

The part about 'timing' struck Tino as familiar, brought to mind explanations of his and Berwald's failed relationship he'd made to friends. His eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion. "You—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know all about what happened. Why else do think I'd be talking like this? I know what broke, I know how he fucked up—and I can guess how _you_ fucked up. That's why I came up with this deal, and that's why I'm offering it. _So?"_

Tino paused for a small moment, consulted his hands again, and then let his shoulders finally let his shoulders slump a little. When he raised his head again, he looked very tired.

"Do I have to answer with a door number, or do I just say 'yes' and let you figure it out?"

Peter frowned, but not as severely as he would have earlier. "Neither. I already kinda knew. And I think he's coming back in. This is between you and me, alright?"

Tino nodded, and, in the middle of the action, Berwald negotiated through the dining room doorway with a pan full of slightly singed garlic toast.

"They're a little black'n'd," he began, setting the pan on a trivet, "but considerin' m'track record w'th th'oven, I call it a win."

Peter grinned at him cheekily, all hints of his earlier seriousness gone. "Should I clap?"

Berwald rolled his eyes at the boy and situated himself at the table, beginning to pass dishes as he needed them and as requested.

Tino watched this man – so in his element with a son and busy hands – and thought of the one he'd known – so insecure and overbearing – and decided that he might've made the right choice.

Then he asked for the garlic toast.


	10. The Final Segment

_"Perfection is attained by slow degrees; it requires the hand of time."_

- Voltaire

* * *

"Good morning, Peter. How are you today?"

Peter sat opposite his case worker, who was perched on the loveseat in the den with a clipboard on her knee, looking at him expectantly. His first thought was to snap at her – something about her patronizing smile and condescending attitude made his mood sour almost instantly – but he rallied, and smiled for all he was worth.

"I'm great," he said, focusing on the memory of making pancakes with Berwald that morning, not on her face. Her eyebrows rose, and she made a note before going on.

"So, you've been fostered to Mr. Berwald Oxenstierna for just over a year. Are you satisfied in his ability to care for you?"

"Oh yeah."

And so it went. The woman asked him question after pointless question, and he answered, held a smile even when she made the sorts of implications that made him want to throttle her.

'_Finally, I get a father who treats me well,' _he thought_, 'and _now_ she asks about abuse. Seriously?'_

But he kept smiling. He had no clue how unnerving – rather than reassuring, as was the intended effect – this was for his case worker. She was used to him scowling or causing trouble or yelling, so his apparent happiness completely threw her.

But it also left her with nothing negative to report. Even after she brought Berwald in to close the session as a joint interview, Peter just seemed to perk up more, playing off his father's nervousness and stoicism until he managed to get a laugh out of the man.

Peter's case worker made her final notes almost two hours later. She bid the small, anxious family farewell, leaving them alone with their hopes. They'd blown the interview out of the water. Peter's psychological review had shown amazingly positive progression. She had no grounds to hold up the adoption. Really, father and son might've hugged, but the boy hadn't really recovered from the embarrassment of the last one, so they stuck to something he _wouldn't_ deem mortifying.

The moment the door closed behind the woman, Berwald and Peter high-fived. Hard.

Now there was just one last hurdle left to jump.

* * *

That evening, Tino called. Peter picked it up. He handed it to Berwald.

It was nice, when, at the end of the call, the Swede didn't have to shield his face. His breathing was regular. He told Peter to put on his coat, that they were going to the park— to which Peter responded that he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself while his dad and said dad's ex-boyfriend sat on the swingset and worked out their issues, and that he didn't want to go.

He got a coat in the face for his troubles. He burst out laughing and made Berwald drive him to the park with it over his head as retribution. They got lots of weird looks from people on the sidewalk as they went by.

When they pulled in, Peter pointed out a neighboring arcade to his father, promising to sit in front of the Plexiglas window so the man could keep an eye on him. Berwald let him go, and headed to where Tino was hesitantly waving, ironically, from the swingset.

They sat together for a long time. Talking. Completely oblivious to the annoyed faces Peter was making at Tino from afar.

It was kinda perfect. But it could get better.

* * *

"Thank you," Tino said, after around an hour had passed, and the conversation had dropped into a lull. Berwald glanced over at him quizzically, hands stuffed into his pockets around the chains of the swing for warmth.

"Y've got more t'blame me f'r than thank me," he pointed out, thinking back to the shame-faced confrontation at the police station they'd had almost two years ago now. They'd touched on it briefly, in the course of their talk, but ultimately the issue had been skirted, still too sore to dig into very deeply.

"That's not what I'm talking about," Tino replied, letting himself swing a little, heels dragging in the dirt. "You didn't have to come here, or invite me to dinner the other night... you're actually getting along. So... thank you."

"S'th'only thing I could've done," Berwald said. Tino locked gazes with him, and had that funny – but by no means unpleasant – feeling of looking into the eyes of someone who really _loved_ him. But the feeling there, and Tino's familiar surge of anxiety, were tempered by Berwald's newfound responsibility. It was plain in how the man acted.

_I love you, but rationally. I can't be irrational when I know he needs me. I won't be.  
_

And that was so much better. Tino wanted to be _two hundred percent_ fine, didn't want to admit he _wasn't_ two hundred percent fine, but if he wasn't going to be two hundred percent fine anyway, he didn't want to be that way in the face of a love like Berwald had shown him before. He felt too exhausted to handle that suffocation.

But it was plain now he wouldn't have to. And thinking about that led to other thoughts, harder to articulate, harder to voice.

"Berwald, I think that... maybe... after a while... we could..."

He trailed off, wondering how to express what he wanted to without sounding untoward, or rushing things. That was the last thing he wanted to do. His companion looked skyward, getting the gist of what the Finn was trying to say, before glancing back over to the arcade to make sure Peter was still safe and sound.

"Yeah. Maybe. But I'll want t'wait f'r... a good bit. F'r us, and f'r Pet'r. He... _r'lly_ doesn't like you..."

Tino laughed. "I noticed. But, after some time, we might be okay."

He left the 'we' he was referring to good and vague, and Berwald stood to stretch, working some kinks out of his neck. Tino followed shortly, and, together, they started towards the edge of the park.

"I've... got a date, later this week," the Finn said. Berwald nodded.

"S'good. I do too."

Tino did a double take. _"Really?"_

"At th'justice cent'r," Berwald elaborated, chuckling lightly at the smaller man's instant reaction. "M'goin' t'be adoptin' Pet'r, form'lly."

"Oh. But that's not the kind of thing I meant..."

"Know what y'meant. S'just a good 'xcuse t'get that in. Pet'r isn't a temporary thing, was m'point."

"Oh. Okay. That's... that's a big thing."

Berwald nodded in acknowledgment. "We're ready."

By this point they'd reached the parking lot and Berwald's car, and Peter was also on his way over, having seen them wrapping up. He looked suitably annoyed by Tino's presence, but overall happy with a sour apple lollipop hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

"Who'd y'bum th'candy off of?" Berwald asked, amused. Peter grinned.

"Idiot running the laundromat next door. He came over to flirt with the arcade owner. Easy pickings."

His dad shook his head, but unlocked the car door so Peter could hop in before turning back to Tino.

"D'y'need a ride home?"

"Nah," the man replied, waving the offer off. "I drove here. My car's at the far end of the lot."

"Mhm. G'night, then."

"Good night, Berwald."

Tino stepped back and watched as the man got into his car and drove away, knowing that he too was being watched, in the rearview mirror. He stood for a moment, squinting to catch the red glimmer of taillights before they were completely eaten up by the darkness, hugging his coat around himself tighter for warmth.

Then he left for his own car and went home.

_We'll wait a while... but after that, it's anyone's guess._

* * *

Time day of Berwald's 'big date' came.

Peter was very disappointed.

It had literally taken him more time to get ready for the proceedings than it had for the case to be heard and the judge to sign the adoption order. After everything he'd gone through, it seemed amazingly anticlimactic. They'd gotten the prefunctory questions about how Berwald was adjusting to having Peter in his life (easy answer there), why he'd wanted to adopt (harder answer, but he'd thought it over for a while and was able to give a good one), if he could provide for Peter, etc...

The last question had been the funniest to answer, as it turned out the judge owned and treasured a credenza made by Berwald. That was probably the point at which everyone in attendance realized how much of a formality the whole process was.

The hearing, all in all, had lasted forty-five minutes.

"Well. S'good t'know that's done w'th," Berwald pointed out later, as they were driving home. "Y'want t'go out t'eat, or somethin'?"

Peter loosened the tie of the suit Berwald had bought him specifically for the occasion. "Not really. We still have leftovers from yesterday, right?"

"Yeah."

"Cool. I dunno... I just wanna be at home, y'know?"

Berwald nodded, flicking the windshield wipers on to catch the first sprinkles of rain, forecasted days ago. Despite the weather and their somber appearance and the silence in the car, the mood was palpable. The happy, upbeat, 'this would be a really corny moment if he weren't some kind of stoic and I wasn't a teenager' mood.

The Swede took a hand off the steering wheel and ruffled his son's hair, earning himself a disgruntled 'hey' for his troubles. He'd decided to make it corny anyway.

"Want t'be home too."

"Good – get us there, preferably _without_ running us off the road 'cause of some embarrassing urge to dishevel my hair."

_Translation: I love you, Dad._

"Hush y'. 'Mbarrassin' y'is m'job now."

_Translation: I love you too, kid._

After a while, they went home. They had leftovers, and they stayed up late watching a movie Peter had a passing interest in. They fell asleep on the couch and woke up with sore necks and kinks in their backs, and Peter barely got to school on time, and Berwald got to work drawing up some new designs. Eventually, Tino called again, reporting the outcome of what had been an abysmally bad blind date. They both got a kick out of it, and they both hung up in a slightly better mood than before. Berwald picked Peter up from school and he did his homework before they made dinner. He told Berwald about wanting to ask a friend out, and the Swede choked on what he'd been drinking.

And they lived their lives.

And they were pretty happy.

And that was alright.

* * *

_"Being happy doesn't mean that everything is perfect. It means that you've decided to look beyond the imperfections."_

- Unknown

* * *

_Thank you for reading._


End file.
